


This Time Around (I thought we'd have Forever)

by Frisk15



Series: This Time Around [2]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: An ending is not necessarily The End, Bittersweet Ending, M/M, Major Character Death(s), Soulmates, Suicide, depressed!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6543586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frisk15/pseuds/Frisk15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's life came to a screeching halt the same moment Danny's Camaro crashed and burned. His descent into a grief filled chasm seems unstoppable even by the intense efforts of his friends and colleagues, who try to prevent him from going over the edge. When he finally gives in and follows Danny into that Eternal Darkness, it seems as if their time together, their shared love, has come to a final end. But has it really?<br/>----<br/>The events of 'This Time Around (without you loving me)' seen from Steve's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken (Steve's POV)

**Author's Note:**

> *TRIGGER WARNINGS* This is a dark tale covering such (explicit!) subjects as a car crash, a spiral down into deep depression and suicide. Please do NOT read if this will trigger you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The world has become broken, and I can't find myself among the pieces."  
> \- Anonymous -

* * *

 

The high pitched wailing pierces through the haze currently enveloping his mind, and he distantly wonders why the newly arriving Emergency Services engage their sirens when the real urgency has become a moot point. When there's nothing left to rush to and rescue; when all that's left is bent, scorched metal and smoke.

When there's nothing left but _death_.

His eyes flicker over the wreck, a detached part of his brain neatly and professionally cataloguing the details of the scene, like gathering the pieces of a puzzle. He takes in the twin rubber tracks leading off the side of the road, the large missing chunks of the trees the car collided with, the torn-up earth where the rear wheels spun madly to get a grip.

And failed.

Distantly he's aware of hands curling into his shoulders, gripping his clothes; arms wrapping themselves around his chest before he is being tugged backwards, realizing that the heat on his face means he's too close to the flames, too close to the smoking metal.

But not close enough to the bloodied arm sticking out of what is left of a door, not _nearly_ close enough to the hand stretched out in a mute plea. He's no longer close enough to reach and touch those fingers, wrap his own around them and _pull_ , and as he watches in horror, the distance between that hand and his own becomes larger and larger.

And in that moment he knows that the wailing sound is not a siren.

It's coming from his own mouth.

 

* * *

 

When his brain kickstarts again, he finds himself sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair amidst the hustle and bustle of what seems to be the Admittance area of a hospital's Emergency Room, a blanket thrown around his shoulders, numb fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee gone cold. Frowning, he stares down at the black liquid, then slowly looks up at the figures standing around him. People are talking, speaking to him, but their words jumble together into an incoherent verbal stream. He can't make sense of them.

"What?"

One of the figures crouches down to his level, and he realizes it's Chin, his eyes gentle in a drawn and haggard looking face. He blinks at him owlishly, trying to figure out what is going on. Over Chin's right shoulder he can see Kono, standing hunched over in an uncharacteristic slouch, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. He can see she has been crying, and he wants to get up and comfort her, tuck her into his chest and help her cope with what seems to be immeasurable grief. But somehow his legs refuse to straighten, his body a mass of quivers and feeling cold. _So_ cold.

"What?" he asks again, intently staring at Chin just hovering before him, his eyes begging him to try and help make sense of the situation. Frowning again, he watches Chin sigh and briefly close his eyes before looking at him again.

"They want to know if Danny ... if Danny was a donor. Apparently not all his medical records were transferred from Jersey to the Island."

He's turning the question over and over in his mind - why would they ask this? why not ask Danny himself? - when a warm hand is wrapped around his own cold one, and as he looks down he can see the coffee cup trembling violently, causing the liquid to slosh over the edge and stain his pants, joining other stains that appear to be mud, and oil, and ...

Blood. _Danny's_ blood!

His breath stutters to a halt within a suddenly constricted throat, and raw images rush into his head. Images of flames, of twisted metal, of an outstretched hand which he had grabbed and pulled, moaning "Danny, come on. Danny, get out! _Danny!"_ while staring into wide, blue, _blue_ eyes that reflected the orange flames but were empty and unseeing and ...

Jamming a fist against his mouth, he shoots out of the bucket chair, roughly shaking off outstretched hands as he runs for the bathroom next to the reception desk. Once inside a stall, he heaves and heaves and cries, choking on his own bile, his breath rasping, his eyes tearing with the force of his rebelling stomach and overpowering grief.

_Danny!_

After several minutes, he flushes and turns, his back colliding with the side of the stall, and then slides down as his legs once more refuse to bear him. Wrapping his arms around his head, shaking, the knowledge which he has managed to suppress up to that moment settles into his mind and heart with a gut-wrenching finality.

Danny is _dead!_

 


	2. Regrets (Steve's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When there are no more moments to cherish,  
> no more experiences to live through and savor,  
> when all you have left are memories ...  
> that's when you'll know the true meaning of regret."
> 
> -Anonymous -

* * *

 

The days following Danny's death find Steve functioning on auto-pilot. If functioning really _is_ the correct term to describe what he does.

He mechanically moves in the direction gentle hands steer him in, sits down when it is expected of him, numbly answers when asked a question. The food placed in front of him gets eaten, or at least he _thinks_ it does, and he goes to bed at night and gets out again in the morning. What he does in the time lying between those two moments cannot, however, be described as sleeping. He lies still on his back, not moving, eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling. From time to time he simply shuts off, a subconscious act of his body in order to preserve itself.

But he does not _sleep_.

His mind slips from conscious thought straight into nightmares, skips from questions turning over in his mind while lying awake, to dark and deeply troubling answers which appear when he finally closes his eyes.

The one thing which sits at the forefront of his mind, the one emotion which sometimes even manages to bump his grief from its #1 spot, is regret. Regret that he didn't have more time. Regret that it had taken him so long to even dare confess his feeling towards Danny. Regret that he hadn't moved things along faster so they could've become more, _much_ more than just partners, friends. Even more than the lovers they'd been in the end.

But the biggest regret he has is that he had dared to love _at all_.

Had dared allow Danny into his heart, had dared to be happy and thereby  _kill_ him _,_ because he had tempted Fate itself by forgetting what happened with everything good in his life. Had ignored the fact that, in Steve's life, happiness just wasn't _allowed_ to survive. In Steve's life, only bad things happened to both him and those who surrounded him, those who _loved_ him. There was his mother's death, his first experience with the devastation of having a loved one ripped from his life. He had grieved for years. Then there had been the deaths of several of his SEAL team mates, men he entrusted with his life, men whom he had _loved_ more than he had loved himself. Finally there'd been the horror of his father's death, the one death which had appeared to lead him towards happiness again. Had led him to Danny. And ultimately, _Danny's_ death.

And those last two were completely _his_ fault. He knows it, with a deep certainty that has settled creaking and permanent in his bones. Knows that he could have saved his father, if only he had come up with a solution. Knows that Danny died because he had stormed from the office, _furious,_ raging mad because of something Steve had said. No, in Steve's life, happy things like friends, family, _love_ could never survive. Because of Steve; because of who he was.

In Steve's life, only _death_ took up permanent residence, and every good thing would only last a short moment before it crashed, and burned, and went up in smoke.

Like Danny did.

 

* * *

 

The day of the funeral arrives, and Steve finds himself desperately wishing he could stop the world, could've stopped the sun from rising that morning; halt the inevitable moment when they will place Danny in the ground and cover him, never to see him again.

They have all gathered at the McGarrett house, the place where Danny and Steve spent the last months living and loving, infusing the old creaking foundations of the place with their laughter. It's the place from where they will depart, bringing Danny with them; and the place they will return to later, without their friend, leaving him behind, alone, in a place where there will be no-one to murmur words of comfort in his ear while he waits for the end of Eternity to arrive.

Steve wants no part of it.

He manages to slip away, unnoticed, and hides himself in the upstairs bathroom, hides in a dark corner and lets his grief wash over him. He is slumped over, shaking and trembling, softly whispering his dead partner's name over and over while tears course down his face.

"Danny, oh God, _Danno_ ..."

Of course his absence is noticed, of course they come looking for him; and eventually there's a fist pounding on the bathroom door. It's Chin's voice, infused with worry, worry for the harm they're all afraid he might inflict on himself.

"Steve, come on Steve! Open the door. _Steve!_ "

Slowly he rises, gets up from the cold floor which has left his butt numb, and scrubs his face angrily with both fists, the gesture reminiscent of that of a small child. He's about to turn and open the door, unlock it before Chin rips it from its hinges, when a soft whisper washes over him like a soft breeze, causing his skin to break out in goose bumps at the familiar voice he so desperately longs to hear again.

_"Steve..."_

His head whips up, and for one shocked, unbelievable moment he _sees_ him, sees him standing there; sees _Danny!_ There's an etheral quality to him, as if he's hovering between two worlds, as if he doesn't really belong. There's a deep sadness in his face, that beautiful and _gorgeous_ face, and he reaches out a hand as if he's about to touch Steve, who feels frozen in place.

"Danny?"

The next instant the hand does touch his face, and there's a sudden feeling of complete and utter love which suffuses him, wraps around him like his mother's arms used to do; like Danny's arms used to do ... It's not real. He knows it _can't_ be real, no matter how hard he wishes it to be. It's _not real_ , and he clenches his eyes shut in pain at this cruel trick of Fate.

"You're not real!" he breathes out harshly, as if the words are a confirmation of how this vision can only be some crazed result of his heart's desire, and he utters them as if they're a spell with which he can counter this mad illusion. "You're not real ..." he repeats, and as the truth and agony of those words seep through into his consciousness, a sudden rage overpowers him. Rage at the unfairness of it all; rage at the world which seems so lonely without Danny in it; rage at himself for being the cause of all this pain.

The next instant he slams his fist into the tiles of the bathroom wall, and the sensation of his hand and fingers breaking brings back some form of clarity. He watches the blood drip from his hand as he hears the bathroom door being kicked in, and the next moment he is enveloped by two strong arms, the arms of his friend, steadying and holding him close, and he lets himself sink into them.

"Jesus, brah ... what are you _doing_ to yourself?"

Chin gently takes his broken hand, then grabs a towel from the rack, opens the cold water tap and holds the towel under the water.

"Steve, you have to stop _punishing_ yourself."

The towel is gently wrapped around his hand as Steve hunches over, trying to avoid the intent eyes of his friend; trying to avoid the concern and irritation he is sure he will see in them. He leans against the cracked tiles and shudders.

"You know this is not your fault, right? That Danny ... Danny's death was an accident."

Steve freezes at the words. Not his fault? _Everything_ is his fault! This, this _horror_ was _all_ his fault! He starts vehemently shaking his head, neck popping with the ferocity of the gesture.

"No no no! It _is_. It _is_ my fault! I should've called him, I should've made sure he'd gotten home safe because he was _upset_ , I ..." He lets himself slide down to the floor, covering his head with his arms, trying to hide himself, _ashamed_ of himself. The moisture from the towel drips down and into his shirt, but he doesn't notice.

"We fought, Chin. We _fought_ , and I never got the chance ... I never got to tell him ..." He hiccups, his breath caught in his throat, and he is only barely aware of the fact that Chin slides down the wall to sit next to him, leaning up against him as if he's aware of the fact that Steve feels _so cold_ and is trying to transfer some of his own body heat into him. He takes another shuddering breath, trying to focus on Chin's next words.

"People fight, Steve, people fight _all the time_." Chin pulls him off the wall and against his chest, and Steve can hear his heart beat, can hear the steady rythm with the ear pressed against Chin's chest and feel it through his skin. When Chin continues, his voice is a gentle rumbling against his ear.

"And he knew, OK brah? Danny _knew_ you loved him. Even if you fought, he knew you loved him."

For one heart stopping moment, the words feel like the absolute truth. As if somehow Danny is standing right _there_ professing his love to him.

But Steve knows it's not real.

 

* * *

 

They manage to push back the funeral one hour, an hour in which Steve is taken to hospital and his hand is x-rayed, then fitted with a cast. The drugs they give him - and they're good, _strong_ drugs, the prescription initiated by the doctor after he hears both the cause and the reason for the broken hand - cause him to zone out again, and the next moment he finds himself standing at the edge of a grave.

 _Danny's_ grave.

He distantly hears people speaking - and there seem to be a lot of them - and vaguely notices Danny's parents standing near him. He thinks people hug him, thinks Danny's mother wraps her arms around him and, despite her own apparent grief, whisper words of consolation to him, but he's not sure.

All he's sure about is that they put his friend, his partner, his _mate_ in the cold ground and are about to cover him with tons of dirt. And that won't do, because Danny needs _air_ and he won't be able to _breathe_ in that hole, in that _box_ , and he needs to get him _out_ of there!

He takes people by surprise as he rushes forward and jumps into the hole in the ground, yelling "Danny, I'm _coming_!" as he desperately tries ripping the lid off the coffin. Two, then three and four more bodies jump in with him, but instead of helping him they're pulling him _out_ and he's screaming, _howling_ with rage as they try to prevent him from releasing Danny out of his prison.

"No, _no!_ Let me _go!!_ I need to help him, he needs to get _out!_ "

As they wrestle him up and out, subdue him onto the ground while he screams and yells and cries, the grief and anguish finally locking his breath within his chest, he only vaguely registers the prick of a needle _._ Within moments his mind becomes even foggier than it already was, his limbs turning to lead, and he feels wrecked about not being able to help Danny get out of that cold, dark hole.

"I'm sorry! Danno, I'm so, _so_ sorry!" he sobs.

And then there's darkness.


	3. Abandonment (Steve's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When the remaining pilar, that final structure which supports life vanishes;  
> if in the end even Hope has been abandoned, then there really is nothing left.  
> Then all has been lost."
> 
> \- Anonymous -

* * *

 

The guilt he feels begins to consume him, starts carving out a hollow place where his heart used to be.

His friends, his _'ohana_ maintains a steady vigilance, surrounding him 24/7 all throughout that first week after the accident; gathers around him and holds him up when they finally lay Danny down to rest in the cold, _cold_ ground and Steve completely loses it; tries to pull him back from the edge on which he seems to teeter. They can sense his dispair, and know by the few words he has uttered that Steve blames himself for the accident; takes full responsibility for the horror with which they have been confronted; stands up and pleads guilty to the fact that one of their best friends is no longer around.

They try and convince him that he's wrong, that he's not to blame. He refuses to accept their words. And every day he turns a little more inwards, and soon he stops talking, stops listening, stops caring.

Stops _living_.

 

* * *

 

The house, once the pride and joy of his parents, the place which held his best memories, is a mess.

He no longer cares about keeping it tidy, keeping it in order. Nobody comes over to see its condition anyway; nobody comes over to see _his_ condition, either. Not that he'd care if they did. Or didn't. These days, there's nothing Steve cares about anymore.

Some small, separate, still functioning part of his brain acknowledges the fact that he has been steadily pushing people from his life, has been thwarting their attempts to bring him back into the circle of friends, the circle of _'ohana;_ that he no longer wants to be a part of it. He still functions within his job, basically going through the motions; gives orders, takes down suspects.

But his heart is no longer involved.

Because his heart, his compassion, his ability to  _love_ lies buried in a lonely grave, together with the man he once loved. _Still_ loves. Longs to be with, for every second of the day, with every breath he takes. Everything else is just circumstantial, just a means to get through yet another day until the time comes when he can join the one he lost.

And he wants that day to come soon.

 

* * *

 

Dannys little girl, Danny's little _monkey,_ Gracie ... he's pushed her away as well.

Not because he's angry with her, or doesn't care about her anymore. If anything, he cares _too much_. Those first weeks after Danny's death, they continue the normal visitation routine; she comes over for the weekend, and he tries, oh God he _tries_ to act normal. But he cringes every time she gets this certain look, makes this certain gesture, and all he can see is her father in her.

All he can see is Danny looking out of her eyes.

And instead of that bringing some form of comfort, instead of being grateful that at least _some_ part of the man is still around, instead of those little bits of Danny filling him with warm memories and offering him sufficient reason to stay grounded and hang on ... it rips him apart. It _shreds_ him from within. It causes him to become _undone_.

So he withdraws.

He finds reasons to cancel more and more weekends. He finds reasons to stop answering her calls, stop answering her increasingly desperate queries; stops finding a motive to continue this horrible, utter _torture_ of seeing and hearing bits of the man he loves, when he knows he'll never have the completeness of him again. And after weeks, _months,_ she stops trying.

And when the day comes when a soft sound at the door wrangles him from his stupor, alsmost causing him to drop the bottle as his head whips towards the door and sees her standing there, he knows she's come to finally say goodbye.

"Uncle Steve?"

He grunts as he resumes emptying the bottle, hearing her soft and cautious approach as he slouches in his father's old recliner. His insides clench as he tries to prepare himself for the inevitability of what he knows is coming, but he wants it to come nonetheless; is ready to finally sever the ties with everything which was good in his life. So in order to make sure that is what will happen, to prevent any chance of her backing out of this resolve, he clamps down on any warm feelings he might still have. And sighs as he readies himself to do something which he knows will hurt her, but in the end will save her from being dragged along down into his hell.

"What do you want, kid?"

He refuses to speak her name, refuses to acknowledge that last link which still ties him to Danny, and he can almost sense her anger; sense the feelings of hurt and _abandonment_ emanating from her next words as he pushes her away this last time.

"Uncle Steve..."

He hears her draw a deep breath as she stops, as if steeling herself against the emotions he's certain are currently running through her.

"Mom thinks it's better if I didn't come here for a while, because you've been ..."

He slowly turns towards her, raising an eyebrow, willing her to continue and put an end to all of this; willing her to strike the final blow. He watches as she lifts one of her hands and sweeps it around, indicating the chaos with which he has surrounded himself. The chaos which has become his life. He frowns, taking it in, wondering whether it does, whether it _should_ matter to him. He decides it doesn't. Not anymore.

"You haven't been well, after Daddy ... after Danno died."

She swallows, as if the words are hurting her as much as they're hurting him; as if she feels how they solidify into a sharp, merciless sword cutting through his very soul. He takes a sip of his beer to hide the agony, to hide the tears which threaten to form in his burning eyes. Then he nods.

"Yeah, OK."

For a moment, it feels as if he's engulfed by a whirlwind of emotions, and he clutches his bottle as if it were an anchor preventing him from being swept along by the vortex of despair, and grief, and _anger._ Emotions he's not sure are his, not certain that he's even capable anymore of feeling. But before he has the chance of further analyzing this strange experience, the girl _screams_ at him.

"I _hate_ you!"

It's a sound filled with anger, with utter and complete _rage_  combined with grief and loss. He recognizes and understands each and every component. As she stands next to him, quietly panting, he knows she's hoping that he will finally wake from his stupor; knows she's praying he will rise and fold himself around her, comfort her. He knows that, in the end, she will never be able to deal that final blow, be able to sever those last ties. So he does it for her.

"I know, kid. I do too."

And as he hears her shocked intake of breath, followed by the sound of her running from the house, crying, he knows he has not only cut the last ties he had with her, the last ties he had with Danny, but has also destroyed the last reason for him to stay alive.

He has abandoned hope. 


	4. Downward spiral (Steve's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lost opportunities cause erosion of confidence,  
> and the downward spiral begins."  
> \- Charles Stanley -

* * *

 

Steve knows he's losing it. Losing his grasp on life, his hold on sanity. And his team mates are losing their former rock-solid confidence in his abilities as their leader. He's letting them down, taking more and more chances that leave them in danger, as he careens into situations without first evaluating them.

The worst thing is: he's also lost his ability to care about any of it.

 

* * *

 

One incident nearly gets Kono killed.

They agreed on pairing off, Steve and Kono taking the rear entrance to an abondened warehouse where a suspected arms deal is going down. Just as Kono manages to jimmy the lock and slither through the now open door, a movement off to Steve's right draws his attention. Without thinking twice he runs in the direction of a disappearing figure, tracking him up a rusty fire escape onto the roof. It takes a short but vicious fight to bring the suspect down, and he's dragging him back down the stairs - unheeding of the fact the man's head connects with every step on the way down - when several volleys of gunfire sound from within the warehouse.

After a short moment of silence, someone starts screaming.

Rushing inside he finds Chin next to a badly bleeding and unconscious Kono, hoarsely yelling for an ambulance while trying to stem the blood which flows in an ever widening pool underneath her body. Steve just stands there, numb, watching as a frantic Chin tries to keep his cousin from dying on the spot. When, minutes later, Kono is loaded into an ambulance and Chin hops in with her, Steve doesn't go along. Instead he gets into his truck and drives back to HQ.

Hours later he's still staring at the empty computer screen on his desk when Chin, covered in what can only be Kono's blood, comes rushing into his office and yanks him out of his chair by the straps of the body armor he's still wearing.

"You son of a _bitch!_   She counted on you to back her up! What is _wrong_ with you, McGarrett?!"

He doesn't know how to respond. Doesn't even know whether or not Kono is alright, and initially he feels a rush of conflicting emotions wash over him. He's trying to sort through them, trying to come up with the appropriate response, when he realizes that he actually doesn't care; doesn't care about Chin's anger or Kono's injuries. And he doesn't care about being called out by Chin. He just feels ... tired.

"Take it up with the Governor, Chin. I'm just doing my job."

He watches detachedly as Chin just stares at him, then feels himself being pushed back into his chair. Chin bares his teeth in an almost feral gesture, but even that doesn't really phase him. He knows his team mates have lost their faith in him, and he knows that's all on him. But he simply can't find it within himself to care about any of it.

"I will do just that, McGarrett. I _am_  going to take it up with the Governor." Chin backs away, shaking his head in disgust. "Because whatever you think you're doing, brah, it's definitely _not_ your job!"

For a moment he feels something akin to sadness wash over him, feels the sharp pain as yet another tie - this one binding him to his _'ohana_ , his family - is severed. It adds to the grief which has already filled him to the point of overflowing.

But in the end, even that doesn't matter anymore.

 

* * *

 

The next months become steadily worse. Even though he manages to prevent another incident like Kono's shooting from occuring, he still rushes headlong into danger. It's as if he subconsciously tries to place himself into the most dangerous situations, as if he's looking for a way out; an escape from his hell on earth.

So he's not surprised when one day he is summoned by the Governor.

He catches a glimpse of Chin and Kono on the way over, and he instinctively knows the pair has been talking about him, has been discussing the way he has changed. He doesn't blame them; he knows he's no longer the same man who once bound them all together, who instilled them with confidence and strength.

Just before entering the Governor's office, he checks himself in the full-length mirror on the wall next to a visitor's bathroom. His shirt is rumpled and stained, and he frowns, realizing he no longer keeps a stack of clean shirts at HQ; no longer invests what little energy he has in maintaining his former crisp appearance. His cheeck bones sharply overhang his now hollow face, and there's several days worth of scruff on his jaws. He absentmidedly hikes up his pants, the new hole he recently put in his belt already failing to do its job. Just like he's failing to do his job. 

He looks like shit. He _feels_ like shit.

Most days acts like it, too.

Sighing, he turns and walks towards the door behind which he knows awaits the end of what little is left of his career at Five-Oh, and knocks.

"Come in."

The frowning face which greets him as he walks in causes a quick shudder to run over his now thin frame, as if the imminent and definite ending of yet another part of his life has suddenly awoken the emotions he has been suppressing for so long now. As if he wants to stop this downwards slide, wants to jam his foot on the break and prevent the ultimate crash from happening.

But he really doesn't ...

A voice drags him back, and he listens as the Governor reads out a long list of incidents from a document he holds in his hands; stands at attention with a blank face as he hears nail after nail being hammered down into the coffin of his career.

" _Damnit_ , Steve! Don't you even _care?!_ _"_

The sudden personal tone of the Governor's voice causes him to raise his eyes, frown at what seems to be a concerned look on the face of the man on the other side of the desk. He carefully turns the question over in his mind. Does he care? Does it matter that, after years of constructing and then honing that incredibly efficient tool which is Five-Oh, after spending all that energy into cementing bonds of trust and confidence, after creating their _'ohana,_ he is willing to let it all slip away? _Does_ he care?

"No, Governor. I don't care. Not anymore."

He hears the shocked intake of breath, sees the quick flash of what seems like pain ripple across the Governor's face, watches as the man clamps down on it and schools his countenance into an emotionless surface, knowing that he steels himself for what inevitably comes next.

"Then you leave me no other option, Luitenant-Commander. I hereby relieve you of your function of Head of Five-Oh, effect of immediately. Please leave your gun and badge."

He nods, unclips his weapon from its holster and places it on the desk, puts his badge next to it, and then steps back from the desk. The Governor's next words sound pained, almost wistful, filled with regret at what he has been forced to do.

"This could have, _should_ have gone differently, Steve."

He gives him a long look, staring into the other man's eyes before he shakes his head.

"No Sam. It couldn't."

He turns and leaves.

 

* * *

 

What follows isn't clear to him.

He spends each day in a haze, spending less and less time on putting sustenance in his body, less and less time on his personal upkeep.

And more time on drinking.

There's hardly any food left in the house, which now has empty bottles strewn over every surface, left on almost every bit of furniture. His feet crunch the glass from the bottles he has thrown against the wall during the few bouts of rage that course through him, but he doesn't even heed those anymore; doesn't seem to notice the streaks of blood on the carpet his cut feet have left.

One day, when he's driven out of the house on yet another booze run, he catches a familiar figure across the street.

 _Gracie_ _!_

For one heart beat, one breathless moment his steps falter, causing the bottles in the brown paper bag he's carrying to clank together. He watches from beneath his lashes as Grace - who has stopped, a shocked look on her face, her mouth turned down and eyes glistening with what seem to be unshed tears - answers a question by one of the girls accompanying her. A momentary lull in traffic allows him to catch her answer, drifting from across the street.

"Yeah, that's my un... that's Steve McGarrett."

The quick correction with which she veers away from cataloguing him as somebody close - as _family_ \- causes a quick stab of pain. But then, _pain_ isn't a stranger to him anymore, being one of the few emotions he has left. Pain is something he has become so intimately familair with, he almost considers it to have become his partner, his _friend_ as it were.

He shuffles towards his car, his painful feet forcing him into the gait of a much older man, then gets in and drives off. He catches Grace in his rearview mirror shaking her head, as if she's clearing it, then watching him as he drives off.

Drives away from yet another piece of his past.


	5. Breaking point (Steve's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Viewing a life shattered by grief is like watching an image in a broken mirror, the pieces fractured beyond recognition.  
> Sometimes too fractured to put back together again."  
> \- Anonymous -
> 
> *TRIGGER WARNING* This chapter is about (the preparation for) a suicide. Please don't read if this will upset you! Furthermore, if you're contemplating to end your life, please consult the International Suicide Prevention Wiki site for a help line in your vicinity. They might be able to help you make sense of things.

* * *

 

The time has come for him to put an end to it all.

He no longer even has what little energy it takes to trudge through each day, to continue down this dark path; no will to keep going. But his fervent wish that his life will end has not been granted, despite the utter lack of caring for his now gaunt, hollow body. Even though all that's left is a shell, he still breathes in and out.

He wants to stop that.

 

* * *

 

One evening, he pulls his dress uniform from the back of the closet and places it at the foot of his bed. His hand absentmindedly glides over the fabric, his mind throwing up scenes of the times he's worn it in the past; his father's funeral, Kono's unofficial acceptance within the _'ohana'_ of Five-Oh, the wake for one of Danny's friends.

Danny's funeral ...

Shaking himself, he walks into the bathroom, where he proceeds to take a scalding hot shower, scrubbing his body clean of all the filth which has gathered during the past weeks, the past months. When he stands at the mirror, wiping away the steam left after the shower, he stares at the face looking back at him. A face gone hollow, the skin stretched over razor sharp cheek bones, framed by too-long hair gone prematurely grey.

A face he really doesn't recognize as his own anymore.

His hand shakes when he pulls the razor over his cheeks, but it doesn't really register when the blade catches on a fold of dry skin, frowning as he watches a thin trickle of blood starting to run down his chin. He dabs at it with a towel, slowly breathing in and out while he waits for it to congeal. His movements are like a robot's; stilted, automated; devoid of animation, of life.

When he feels he is ready, he pulls on clean boxers and goes back to the bedroom. There, he takes a long time staring at the uniform lying on the bed, his hands reaching out several times only to draw them back and hang them by his sides again. Some subconscious part of him finally decides against putting it on, as if he no longer deems himself worthy of wearing this symbol of courage, of bravery.

Of strength.

Walking around the foot of the bed, he takes the spare weapon he always keeps in the night stand as well as the box of ammunition next to it, and methodically starts to load the bullets into the clip before snapping it inside the side arm. The sound of the release of the safety catch causes him to pause, bringing a little clarity into his hazy brain.

He stares at the gun in his hand, then glances at the bed. The place where he and Danny forged a new beginning, started a new life filled with tender moments and love and laughter. The spot where he would just lie still and stare at that beautiful man, waiting for him to wake up and see those sleep filled blue eyes catch his own and silently speak of his love for him.

The place where he plans to end what's left of his life.

For one moment he wonders whether this is the place where he should do it, desecrating the one location which was once the center of their relationship, the altar on which they offered their love to each other.

Yes, he decides.

What better place to end it all than the bed which holds the best of his memories of his lover, of his _love_. What better place than that soft, warm nest in which he can still feel the ghostly imprint of a kiss, the shadowy remains of arms wrapped around him. What better place to offer his life's blood than the same altar on which they once offered each other their lives.

Decision made, he crawls up on the bed and settles against the head board.

From this position he can see the sun through the trees in the backyard, slowly going down over the vast expanse of the ocean outside; can see the day's last remnants of light extinguishing as the night approaches and gently starts enveloping the world in its cloak of darkness. As the last rays of sunshine flicker over the water and shadows start drawing near, he sighs and raises his hand. He has seen enough shadows.

He pulls the trigger and follows the light.

 

 

 


	6. Soul for sale (Steve's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I tried selling my soul, but the Devil wouldn't take it.  
> It was too damaged."
> 
> \- Anonymous -
> 
> *NOTE* The view of suicide being a 'selfish and weak escape' is Steve's and not my own.

* * *

 

What Steve never expected to happen, happens.

He can still feel his finger cramping around the trigger, still hear the deafening sound of the discharge, almost simultaneously followed by the bullet carving a path through his brain, when he actually _opens his eyes!_ At least, he thinks they're open; it _feels_ like they're open.

A dark, _dark_ void surrounds him.

There are no sounds, no images; there's not even the hint of the slightest sliver of light. All there seems to be is this darkness enveloping him, undulating around him like it's some living, breathing entity. Pressing down against his whole body, confining him like some type of strait jacket; smothering him as if he's burried underneath half the world.

It scares the _shit_ out of him!

Forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths - and he distantly wonders how that's even possible - he turns around on his axis, making a perfect circle. Everywhere he looks is the same. His eyes cannot make out any details, his ears cannot pick up any sound.

There's just ... nothing.

Suddenly, a sound _does_ reach him; a sound made by a voice, a very _familiar_ voice, drifting towards him across what seems to be a vast distance, sounding as if it has to travel worlds, travel through space itself while fighting the darkness to reach him. It's a moan, and a chill wracks his body at the sheer desperation, the utter _agony_ it contains.

"Danny," he whispers.

The darkness begins to part like a rip in a curtain, and through it comes light, comes sound, come hazy  _images_. He tries to move towards the rift, but his feet refuse to obey, like they're nailed down to the ground. Helpless, he watches as the images solidify into his own bedroom; shudders as he sees his body, _himself_ , slumped over against the head board of his bed.

Takes in the blood and gore and _gags!_

Hoe could he have done this?! How could he have left his colleagues, his _friends_ to deal with the aftermath of what he now sees as a stupid, callous, _selfish_ and _weak_ escape from his grief? He feels something like phantom tears start coursing down his face as he realizes the finality of his actions, and suddenly _Danny_ \- his body emiting a strange glow and almost see-through - pops up from somewhere in his peripheral view and climbs on the bed next to him.

Steve freezes as he watches something akin to surprise and then _horror_ flit over Danny's face as he reaches out and touches the head of the body on the bed; touches _his_ head. There's a strange, tingling sensation at the top of his skull and, dazed, he reaches up with his fingers, almost expecting to find Danny's hand there. When Danny starts sobbing and stroking a gentle hand along the features of his body double on the bed, the gestures resulting in his skin feeling like it's on _fire_ , he feels something tear within himself; bends his head down and shakes it in desparation.

This is so _wrong!_

His eyes are pulled back to the scene visible within the rift in the darkness, drawn back to the place where he _died_ when he hears Danny start speaking, start moaning out words which are filled with grief and pain.

"Steve, no ... _Steve!_ "

Danny tries lifting his hand, then recoils in horror as it falls back into a pool of blood with a wet smack. Steve again tries to move forward, tries his utmost to tear himself from that dark void and throw himself into the bedroom, throw himself around _Danny_ in a desperate bid to wrap his arms around him and comfort him.

Nothing.

"God, no. Why? Steve, _why?!_ " Danny moans again through his sobs, and Steve now knows for certain, feels the absolute _truth_ of it course through his body and settle deep within his soul; Danny had _never_ wanted him to go this way, had never _ever_ expected Steve to simply throw his own life away and commit this devastatingly final act.

Had never wanted Steve to follow him in _death_.

His vision has grown hazy again, this time by the tears of sorrow and guilt streaming down his face. He somehow knows his whispers of _'Sorry Danno; so, so sorry!'_ will not reach the man he sees, but he utters them anyway. Apologizes with every fibre in his being, every ounce of his _soul_ despite not being heard.

The last thing he sees and hears is Danny curling himself around his dead body, wailing out his agony.

Then the rift closes and everything is dark again.

 

* * *

 

Time is an unmeasurable thing when you hear nothing, see nothing; when there's only infinite darkness surrounding you. Steve has no idea how long he stands there, still rooted to the spot, still unable to move either forward or backward. Not that he'd know where to move _to_.

His mind at first is filled with the scenes he saw through that rip in the darkness, filled with thoughts of Danny; filled with unceasing apologies to the man he loves. His whispered words of _'Sorry, so sorry!'_ bounce back to him off the thick, black nothingness surrounding him, and in the end, he stops.

At one point - and he doesn't know if hours, or days, or even _weeks_ or _months_ have passed by now - he suddenly hears Danny's voice again. And this time, too, it seems to come to him from across a vast distance. However, unlike the previous time, the darkness does not part. There are no scenes, no images accompanying the words. Straining, he tries to decipher what Danny says, and in the end concludes there are no _words_ ; it's just one, single, repetitious, _pleading_ utterance.

_"Anything."_

After that, the silence returns, the darkness becomes absolute again, and Steve wonders how much more he can take before going utterly, stark raving mad. How much longer he will be submitted to having all his senses deprived; how long he will be able to withstand the experience of nothing and everything being confined within his own body.

Until the darkness doesn't part but suddenly _shreds_ , instantly disappears like a hood lifted from his head, and sensations like sound and light and images wash over him like the waters of a strong, deadly current.

He stands, frozen, his body numb from this sudden attack on his senses.

When he dares to peek between his lashes, eyes so accustomed to the dark that even the slightest speck of light feels like somebody is burning his retinas with a laser, he makes out a figure standing in front of him.

"Steven J. McGarrett."

The voice does crazy things to his body, to his ears, to his _soul_ ; it simultaneously comforts and drives him _insane_ , full of both gentle promises and deadly threats. It sounds as if its owner is about to lead him to a peaceful place where he will then be torn to bits and left to die. Again.

"What ... what are you? What do you _want_ from me?!" He lets his gaze drift further up until his eyes meet those of the figure, then freezes; it's like looking into Hell itself, like staring into twin pits of swirling fire and smoke. The figure contemplates the man standing in front of it, then sighs.

"From you, McGarrett? I want nothing from you."

Steve frowns, letting his eyes drop down again. He's not well versed in the supernatural, in the Hereafter; but having spent a large part of his life on Oahu, he knows Hawaiian lore is filled with bits of mythology and tales of ancestors and evil creatures vying for a person's soul, brokering deals to either get a piece or all of it and drag it down into the Pit of Fire. And he's just _knows_ that is what's happening now. The figure sighs again.

"You're wrong."

Unable to resist, Steve's eyes snap up to those red, _red_ orbs filled with the promise of agony and _pain_ and eternal fire. And filled with something which looks like a combination of amusement and regret. When the figure opens its mouth again to speak, two rows of razor sharp teeth can be seen, and Steve shudders.

"There's nothing you can offer, McGarrett. We have no use for the soul of somebody who has managed to already torture himself so exquisitely during his time on earth." 

The voice seems to acquire a resigned and almost sad note when it continues.

"You just have nothing left to give. Sad, really."

The figure - the Devil? a _demon_? - continues to stare at him, red orbs unblinking; it's obviously measuring him and finds him wanting, finds him _lacking_ in whatever it is he seeks in the man standing in front of him. Steve shudders, wondering what he's doing here if he has nothing to offer. Wonders if he will spend the rest of Eternity standing here, his mind filled with thoughts and doubts and _regret_ and apologies. Wonders if this is his punishment for taking his own life.

The demon - because Steve is now certain that's what it is - can apparently read his thoughts.

"Again, you're wrong." It cocks its head. "You're, let's say, _parked_ here while one of my colleagues is busy brokering a deal. Busy finalizing an agreement with somebody who has more, _much_ more to offer us than you."

A gleeful look appears on the demon's face, a look of contentment and _happiness_ as it turns its head as if it's listening, hearing something which Steve is no part of. And suddenly he knows, just _knows_ who the demon is talking about; feels an icy coldness suffuse him as he realizes the demon is talking about _Danny!_

"No! No no no _no!_ You can't _do_ that! That's not fair! He's suffered _enough_ already! There _must_ be something I can offer, _something_ I..."

A clawed hand is raised, and Steve's breath is locked within his throat; he's suddenly choking, feeling his lungs becoming tight within his chest, unable to draw in whatever passes for air within this realm. The demon snickers.

"Too late, McGarrett. The deal has been struck. Your - what is it you call him? ah yes. - your _Danno_ has just decided on the fate of both your souls. Pity, really."

The demon motions, and Steve finds himself being pulled forward, close enough to the creature to feel its unnatural heat blazing, feels it _searing_ against his skin. Its voice, when it comes, moves over him like a hot desert wind, withering away anything that dares to be alive, turning all living things to _dust_ and bringing death.

"I think I would have been able to strike a _much_ better deal and drag the soul of your _Danno_ down with me to scream and rage and _howl_ for all Eternity!" It sighs again. "However, it is as it is, and this will have to do I guess." Cocking its head, it gives Steve a last, nearly longing stare. "So this is goodbye, McGarrett. Who knows ... maybe we'll meet again."

And with a flick of its hand, the demon sends Steve careening backwards.

He feels his bones constricting, feels an unnatural pressure just _crunch_ his body until he's certain there will be nothing left as he tumbles over and over through the vast expanse of the darkness, accompanied by the mad laughter of the demon as it watches him disappear.

As his throat finally unlocks, Steve screams.


	7. Nothing is written in stone (Steve's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I always thought the course of one's life was set in stone;  
> chiseled into rock, determining beginning and end.  
> I always thought that was definitive.  
> But I was wrong."
> 
> \- Anonymous -

* * *

 

Steven J. McGarrett is at peace.

Not the kind of peace that results from non-combat; not the absence of needing to fight and survive he has experienced often enough during the many parts of his life when those aspects of who he is, who he _wants_ to be, have been confined and rendered mute by the impersonal restrictions of a uniform.

This is a peace of _mind_.

It's been preceded by years and years of struggle, of grief, of finding people and then losing them again; preceded by tons of mixed-up emotions and feeling lost and being convinced that nobody would ever _need_ him. Preceded by the conviction that he did, indeed, need to turn himself into an island of which he was the sole occupant. Preceded by a long, drawn-out period of utter and complete _loneliness_.

But that's over.

From the moment he had accepted the old Governor's offer of heading her task force, from the instant he ventured forth and added what at first seemed to be completely incompatible components to the team he was forging, from the very first beginning of creating that thing called _'ohana_ , he stopped feeling lonely. Could no longer _be_ lonely while being immersed daily in the love of strong friendships and tons of snarkiness and plenty of laughter.

It's a good life.

 

* * *

 

Yet, sometimes ...

Sometimes when a dry, warm wind blows over the island, his mind will throw up vague memories of a hot, _scorching_ heat searing skin; will render his eyes useless even on the brightest day and surround him with complete darkness, out of which two red-hot orbs will stare at him; judging him, _measuring_ him.

And find him wanting.

Those moments will cause his breath to lock in his throat, his step to falter, his heart to stutter in his chest because they are always followed by a feeling, an _emotion_ so sharp and deep and intense, washing over him, _engulfing_ him that he fears it will drag him under and drown him.

It's the feeling of _loss_.

Yet, there's nothing in his mind to connect to that. He knows it's not his mother's death, knows it's not his father's death, either; knows for a fact that nothing he has ever lost before has caused this sense of _agony_ , this feeling of having been carved out hollow from within, this sensation which sometimes courses through him. It makes him want to scream and rant, makes him want to run down the street pulling his hair, howling that he has _lost_ something but he doesn't know _what_ , and therefore can't _find_ it again!

Those are the moments in which he despairs.

 

* * *

 

And then ...

Then there's Danny.

_Danno_.

His stir crazy partner with an accent that grates on his ears, with wildly flapping hands as they try to convey a point, with hair that should be stapled to his head because otherwise he will _yank_ it out by the roots due to the fact that the sheer untamable floppiness of it drives him _insane_. Danny who always has his back, who's always there when he needs him to be, is always the one thing he can fall back on when he feels himself falter and almost miss a step.

His partner, his buddy; his _friend_.

There are moments when he looks at him, moments when his breath catches, moments when the sheer integrity and wholesomeness and _beauty_ of this man with his blue, _blue_ eyes bowls him over and causes him to frown because he wonders what he did to deserve his friendship. Makes him ponder the question of how he got to be so lucky to have this man's dedication, this man's complete and utter faith and _trust_.

Those are the moments he's confused.

And he will unconsciously reach out and take Danny's wrist because he wants to know, just _know_ if Danny can feel it too; can feel the intensity of this thing which seems to sizzle between them. Grabs on just to feel connected and be allowed to _feel_ and ask if he, if he ...

"Danny?"

But the moment he has opened his mouth, the question will disappear; will dissipate like smoke and leave him standing, foolishly staring at his partner. His partner who will turn and look back at him, _look_ at him with a promise in his eyes, with his _soul_ bared to the core, and reply with a voice that neither grates nor annoys but is as gentle as can be.

"Yes Steve?"

And he will frown, angry at himself for not being able to remember, and watch as emotions, both dark and delighted, simultaneously happy and sad will rush over his partner's face, and he wants to drown in those eyes because he knows he will save him and bear him up, but he doesn't know _why_ ; and the moment will pass, will disappear, and he will be left confused; frowning even more.

"It's ... never mind. It's nothing."

Then Danny's face will do this thing, this _crumbling_ thing as it folds in onto itself and becomes dark and forelorn and _sad_ , and Steve will turn around, unable to watch this darkness come over his friend, unable to see the grief which sits on that face so naked and bare for all to see. He will turn around because he doesn't _know_ how to apologize for the question he's forgotten to formulate and ask.

The thing is: Danny understands.

Or at least Steve _thinks_ he does, because as he turns around his hand is grasped, envolded into the warmth of that of his partner, and it's patted as if Danny wants to convey to him that all will be well; wants him to know that it's _OK_ that he doesn't remember the question, because he's convinced it will come to him, eventually. And goes and actually tells him so.

"It's OK, Steve. I'm sure it will come to you."

The words will cause him to turn around again and look into those eyes, eyes which are bluer than any ocean he has ever seen, and he will feel uncertainty course through him. He will feel shaken by something which he cannot name, feel rattled by this unknown something which _aches_ but also holds the promise of something incredibly _good_ , and _beautiful._ And then this beautiful man, this person who he holds so dear and who means so much more than anything else in the world, will smile.

"Don't worry, it will be alright."

And those words, spoken with quiet strength and utter and complete _conviction_  will cause something to break loose in his chest, will enable him to breathe again, and he will nod and turn and walk away, his heart feeling light with the knowledge that Danny is right, that _they_ will be alright.

It's going to be OK.

 

* * *

 

Then, one day, Steve remembers.

Remembers the question before it slips from his mind and disappears, like it has done so many times before now. Remembers the words and wonderingly turns them over and over in his mind, feeling them, _tasting_ them, stunned by the sheer simplicity and beauty of them. And he knows this is the single most important question he will ever dare utter. So he asks.

"Danno ... do you _love_ me?"

After a single heart beat, a heart beat which Steve can hear and _feel_ slowly thundering through his chest as if it was drawn out in slow motion before it seems to come to a complete stop, those gorgeous blue eyes fill with tears; tears not shed out of sadness but stemming from the purest joy. Joy which spreads out over the face watching him and sets it alight, shining like the most beautiful sunrise. And Danny smiles.

"Yeah, babe, I do. I _do_ love you!"

And Steve's heart starts up again, and his chest fills with the most unbelievable emotion, fills with complete and all-encompassing _love_ , and he smiles back. Smiles because he has managed to remember; smiles because his life has only really started _just now_. Smiles because he knows there are beautiful things ahead.

Because they have time.


End file.
